Three Poems

Poetry
Marchell Dyon


Photo credit: Neil Moralee/Flickr (CC-by-nc-nd)

Black Women Sing Too Of Cages

We too howl against the rattle of time
We too rage our tattered wings against the bars
We see the length of years stretch before you
We see the gray math twinkling in
Only inches of sun

We too have spilled tears of rage
Until the tears that burned us cools our sweat
We know of thoughts of suicide, a rainbow engulfed
We live a life of high potential wasted

Yes!
We know the choices of no choice
We understand the self-pity and self-denial
We wish for the magic to rise out
From under despair

You tell us to wait with our chins up
You tell us you’ll be home soon
You tell us stories, and you spin your yarn
You ask us to hold on to air

We let you fill our heads with dreams
Still, we work
Alone we raise your children
We stand on blisters

Waiting… waiting… waiting…

In anger, you say women have it easy
You say girls don’t struggle, growing up isn’t hard
Remember now, whose left with the responsibility

When you decide to slang or pick up the gun
Try being women raising
Our children on a minimum wage

Try being blamed for everything as the day is long
Try having to explain your prison term to our son

 

A Black Woman’s Thunder Song

I am the red bird striking
The sky with lightning
My wings bellow like tornadoes

My words are powerful
My words can blow down your house
From my words there’s no shelter

That can prevent me entry
Boom, boom, boom,
I rock your complacency

Re-cord me
My words have a different meaning
Played backwards

My words are never at peace
There is always another war
Another march to rally for

Even if you pretend you don’t have ears
You hear me
You see me

I paint myself red
Even if you count to ten
The flash bomb of my words will blind your eyes

As thunder split the heavens
Rest assured my voice will make its mark
So, shut yourself in and pretend

With your heads in the clouds
Till the storm rolls and awake you
With the sounds

I will not sit silently at society’s
Fruitless table
I will shout my right to order

To make myself heard,
Never will my voice be disabled
Never will I be the dark girl seated but, in the corner,

My stride with lightning will light places
My electric footprints will fill the air
Like thunderstorms my voice leaves traces

My echoes you will remember
I was there and I shook the bars
I was a contender

 

Black Woman, Cool Down

When my anger flares
Is it my blood pressure you wish to ensnare?
See the ice defrost from my lips

See it hone my vocabulary to something sweet
I claim each new moment like a pearl
Found and dived for under an ocean of pain

I hold my breath, I swim
Through the muck like I have gills
I refresh myself by sheer will

I often smooth the conversation
With nothing more to say I leave the room
In the air is the scent of flowers

I remain cool for a few hours
Not that I’m always a hot head
Brimstone
A flint attitude of fire

I just like to sleep well
When I retire
Not that I have joined your point of view
Being that angry black woman all the time
Babe, I have better things to do

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Marchell Dyon is a poetry enthusiast. She enjoys reading poetry wherever she can find it. Once she was nominated for the Best of the Net prize for her poem “As I Stand by My Window Dreaming of Falling.” Her most recent publications are Toasted Cheese and Medusa’s Kitchen. She has taken many poetry workshops; her education and thirst to improve her craft have constantly developed, despite having both schizophrenia and bipolar disorders. She continues to live and write in Chicago. Email: marchelldyon[at]yahoo.com

Reading the Bones

Poetry
Marchell Dyon


Photo Credit: Chocorayto/Flickr (CC-by-nc-nd)

She said open your hands
When you did
Her black hands held your dark palms

She began to trace the lines
Every stitch of DNA in your hands
She tells you to flexed your fingers

She tells you,
To hold your fingers straight like a ruler
You watch as she reads the bones

She tells you more than a gypsy’s fortune can
That these are not lines in your hands
It’s your life tree

Branches connecting you to your history
The lives lived before your time
This is your life tree

She said branching out into your existence
Through this life and into the stars of the next
These are your life lines

Roads bending and cross with few dead ends
She considers your hand like a pool of water
A watery veil of knowledge raining down from heaven

“Look!” she assures you, “your lines are long
Your gray hairs will be many
Before your soul spirits away from this world.”

You look to your hands, your eyes all glassy
dancing with wonder, dreaming out loud,
envisioning for one long moment that maybe she is right.

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Marchell Dyon is a disabled poet. She believes her disability has inspired her creative spark. Her poetry has been published in Toasted Cheese Literary Journal, Full of Crow Poetry Magazine, and Rainbow Rose Ezine, Blue Lake Review, A Little Poetry, Medusa’s Kitchen, The Stray Branch, Strange Horizons, Mused Bella Online, Convergence Literary Journal, Silver Blade Magazine and Torrid Literature Journal. She is from Chicago, IL. Email: marchelldyon[at]yahoo.com

 

The Curse

Poetry
Marchell Dyon


Photo Credit: halfrain/Flickr (CC-by-sa)

Photo Credit: halfrain/Flickr (CC-by-sa)

In her prehistoric thinking if no one stoned her
She would throw herself against the rocks
From her arriving spring into the night

She ran away from the moon’s light hunting her every step
She wanted to remain as she was
She did not believe in the evolution of womankind

She wanted her chest not to sprout and flower
She wanted the red wetness between her thighs to stop
You are a woman now, was all the advice

Her grandmother gave with a smile
No more make-believe but woman’s work
No more dolls but babies at your breast

Her older sister had warned her about the curse
Seven times Cain, said her older sister
She looks back at the moon calling her

She tried to shut her ears to the sweet lull of the moon
She knew she could not stay forever hidden from the goddess
But she was determined to try

pencilMarchell Dyon is a disabled poet and budding storyteller. She believes her disability has inspired her creative spark. Her poetry has been published in Toasted Cheese Literary Journal, Full of Crow Poetry Magazine, Rainbow Rose Ezine, Blue Lake Review, A Little Poetry, Medusa’s Kitchen, The Stray Branch, Strange Horizons, Mused Bella Online, Convergence Literary Journal, Silver Blade Magazine and Torrid Literature Journal. She is from Chicago, IL. Email: marchelldyon[at]yahoo.com

As I stand by my window dreaming of falling

Poetry
Marchell Dyon


The Moon Window
Photo Credit: Derek Gavey

Sometimes I wish I could be as vacant from emotions as the moon.
To be just another spirit free to wander,
Behind the fog like the moon is tonight almost too pale to be seen.

Never needing anyone
Never needing hands

I could be seen from the earth falling not like an angel,
But like a star with silver afterburn leaving glitter across the sky.
If I could be like the stars forever shining through the darkness,

Never needing anyone
Never needing hands

As I stand by my window dreaming of falling.
A cool breeze sweeps me and wakes me from my self-impose trance.
I want to be like the moon and the stars feeling only my own soft light.

Never needing anyone
Never needing hands

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Marchell Dyon is from Chicago. Her poem titled “Concrete Love” was published in Toasted Cheese in 2012. Since then her poetry has been accepted and/or published in Full of Crow Poetry Magazine, The Rainbow Rose Ezine, Blue Lake Review, The Stray Branch, and Strange Horizons. She has also won the Torrid Literature’s First Annual Romancing the Craft Award for 2012. Email: marchelldyon[at]yahoo.com

Concrete Love

Beaver’s Pick
Marchell Dyon Jefferson


I love NY & the Hand I'm Holding
Photo Credit: Jason L. Parks

I laugh at words. My mouth is open all the time. As I pass streets, not swell with petals, below a hazy city sun. When my face isn’t press to yours, I see a carnival of oil slick traffic kaleidoscopes. My vision blurs between bakery smells and armpit avenues that make my nose flare; on a very public bus, we get stares. A fat woman with her eyes dares us to stop what we’re doing, but like everyone else; she stares only long enough then leaves us alone. What a pair we are; a likely Romeo and Juliet and not like them at all. Our ebony faces defiant, making out in back seats. We are, all rev up in each tango taste, till saliva, melts away the tongue.

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Marchell Dyon is from Chicago, IL. She has taken various poetry workshops; she is eternally addicted to audio books. She is currently working on her first chapbook. Her work has appeared in Ouroboros Review, West Ward Quarterly, Lily Review, and Corner Club Press. Email: marchelldyon[at]yahoo.com